


And None Can Release Us

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Ghosts, the strange effects of oaths and silmarils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-09 15:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Nothing can release the sons of Feanor from their Oath. Not even death.So until it's completed, they'll just have to stick around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.
> 
> Originally posted on Tumblr.

It’s common knowledge that none of them die at the Nirnaeth.

Common knowledge is wrong. Amrod dies there.

This passes unnoticed from everyone who is not among their family or followers for two reasons. One, it’s extremely easy to mistake Amras for him at a distance.

Two, people do, actually still see Amrod. Still hear him, even. They just don’t see him touching things anymore.

Amras is there when he dies. He goes charging forward, screaming, and then when he reaches his twin, he nearly gets killed himself because he does a double take. 

Amrod is there on the ground, blood pooled around him.

Amrod is standing above his own body, looking down in confusion.

Not sure what else to do, Amras grabs the body and continues the retreat with it. His guard covers him. Amrod follows along. He can’t fight, they discover quickly, but he works quite well as a distraction.

When they meet up with the others, Maedhros is in full grim commander mode, and Maglor is desperately trying to force some life back into him. “Look,” Maglor tells him, “the Ambarussa are here. We all made it out. Not all is lost.” And he tries to clap Amrod on the shoulder. 

His hand goes right through.

“About that,” Amras says.

Amras is terrified and confused, but also, frankly, a bit embarrassed. It’s one thing to make the same stupid mistake in battle that your brothers have been telling you for years will get you killed, and another entirely to have to actually face them after it. Well. Did.

All of his brothers except Amras have gone pale. “You didn’t follow the call of Mandos?” Maedhros says hoarsely.

“I didn’t hear it!” Amrod protests. That, at least, is not his fault. “And I don’t fancy just wandering in a generally westerly direction. What if they don’t let me in?”

Celegorm looks grim. “Do you think that’s it? The Doom won’t let us pass?”

“Don’t be stupid, if that were it, we’d have a lot more soldiers in the same boat,” Caranthir says impatiently. “Maybe it’s the Oath. It won’t let us go until we’ve fulfilled it.”

“Father swore it too,” Curfuin argues. “He’s not here.” 

The others look at each other uneasily. “He died in the shadow of Angband,” Maglor says uneasily. “You don’t think … “

“Morgoth would have taunted me with it if they’d had him,” Maedhros says, and no one argues with him.

Curufin’s mind picks at the puzzle. “The Silmarils,” he says slowly. “Father put some of his very spirit into them. Maybe the rest of it was drawn there after his death.”

This isn’t actually much better, as two of the Silmarils are still with Morgoth whether the dark Vala is aware of it or not.

“If we could just check Luthien’s,” Celegorm starts.

“No,” Maedhros says firmly. “It’s waited this long. It can wait until we’ve gotten our people to safety.”

They continue the retreat. Amrod slowly adjusts. Maedhros restrains his brothers until the Silmaril passes to Dior. At that point, they send messengers with even more urgency than they would have otherwise had.

Dior doesn’t reply.

They’re desperate for their father back, and it’s so tempting to think he might be right there waiting like Amrod despite all possible arguments against it. The Oath adds to their desperation and torments their minds until they give in.

They attack.

Dior and Nimloth fight desperately to protect the two children they have not yet gotten to safety. Dior’s sword slides neatly through Celegorm’s chest.

The body drops. Celegorm, prepared, stays right where he is and grins. “Oops.”

Dior goes pale and jumps back.

And Curufin’s sword is waiting. It flashes forward, and Dior stumbles, a gut wound now ripping him open.

“Tell us where the Silmaril is,” Curufin demands, and when Dior doesn’t answer, he twists the blade. He ignores Dior’s scream. “You killed my brother,” he says. “I have no hesitation in making you beg for death unless you tell me where our Silmaril is.”

The twins whimper in the corner they’re hiding in. Curufin grits his teeth and ignores them, but Celegorm winces a little. He looks up in time to see Caranthir stumble. 

“Curufin,” he barks.

Curufin’s on his feet in an instant and racing towards Nimloth. He manages to save Caranthir.

He doesn’t manage to save himself.

Nimloth falls, regardless, and the fight is quick, so Dior is still hanging on when Caranthir limps over and Curufin floats.

“Tell us where it is,” Curufin repeats.

Dior shakes his head.

“You’re awfully sanguine for someone with two very vulnerable children in the room,” Curufin says just as Celegorm’s servants come running into the room. “I may not be able to touch them anymore, but I assure you, they can.”

Dior’s face, already pale from blood loss, goes even paler. “No. Please,” he gasps.

The servants are already snatching up the children with bruising grips. The twins twist and cry, but they’re no match for the older elves.

Celegorm’s stomach twists, and he sees the distaste in Caranthir’s eyes, but he trusts his brother, so he keeps quiet.

“Tell us,” Curufin says.

But Dior dies, and he has no Oath to bind him.

“Should we kill them, my lords?” the captain asks.

Celegorm is ready to step in then, but Curufin does first. “Of course not,” he snaps. “What good would that do now?”

“We’ll take them to Maedhros,” Celegorm orders. “See what he wants done.” He follows his men out and tries to think how to explain what just happened to his eldest brother.

Caranthir lingers with Curufin. “I’m sorry,” he says. It is not something he says often.

Curufin waves it away impatiently. “I knew what I was doing.” It is the closest he will come to saying it was worth it.

Caranthir nods over to the corner where the twins were hiding not long ago. “Would you have done it?”

Curufin’s lips twist, but his shoulders hunch a little too. “I haven’t sunk that low yet, brother.”

Maedhros would dwell on the yet. Maglor would take hope from the initial statement. Caranthir accepts it for what it is.

They go to find Maedhros.

For the immediate future, it’s decided they’ll have to look after the twins. It’s not like they have any other options. Long term, perhaps they can ransom the boys for the Silmaril once they know who escaped with it.

It’s a good plan. They retreat to Amon Ereb. Maedhros does his best to keep the boys safe and away from the more bloodthirsty of their followers who are eager for revenge after their losses both at the most recent battle and for those losses they blame on Doriath’s previous extreme isolationist policy. Maglor encourages Maedhros’s involvement, as it helps him focus on something other than their increasingly hopeless situation, and consequently gets involved himself. Amrod and Amras are fascinated by the other set of twins, Caranthir mostly leaves them alone, and Celegorm is happy to have them around. It’s almost like having Tyelpe around again.

Curufin, for his part, is the only one that actively avoids them, a task that’s harder now that he can’t spend all his time in the forge. On the few occasions he is cornered into it, though - Well, Celegorm catches him in Elured and Elurin’s room once when they have a fever, and he’s singing an old lullaby Celegorm hasn’t heard since Tyelpe outgrew it. Curufin refuses to acknowledge his presence until the twins are asleep.

“We could send him a letter, you know,” Celegorm tells him.

Curufin brushes him off. “He didn’t want to talk to me when I was alive. I very much doubt that’s changed just because I got myself killed in another kinslaying.”

It takes two decades to be absolutely sure the Silmaril is in Sirion. Partially because the survivors there are smart enough to keep it quiet at first, and partially because even as desperate as they are for it, after that least battle, they’re not sure they really want to know. Once they do know, they send messengers with their offer.

They’re all hoping it will be accepted. Of course they are. If they’re all privately a little devastated at the idea of giving the twins up, that’s no one’s business but their own.

They needn’t have bothered. The offer is declined.

“Declined,” Maedhros says flatly. If the messenger he’s talking to hadn’t fought in the Nirnaeth, Maglor suspects he’d be shrinking back right now. “The offer was declined. Why?”

“Some of the councilors believed it unlikely the princes were still alive after all these years,” the messenger says. “Others seemed to think it possible that they would not hold Sirion’s best interests at heart if they were returned.”

Ah. They thought the boys had been brainwashed into loyal Feanorians. And, most likely, “And if the boys were returned, one of them would be king, which would upset their own positions,” Maglor says wryly.

“I detected something of the sort, yes, my lord.”

“But their sister?” Maedhros asks incredulously.

“She is quite convinced they’re dead, my lord.”

Maedhros dismisses the messenger wearily.

“How are we going to tell them that?” Celegorm asks.

No one answers.

“Now what?” Maglor asks Maedhros.

No one answers that either.


	2. Chapter 2

To understand what happens next, you must first understand this:

Elured and Elurin’s first memory of the sons of Feanor is of three of them making their father scream, and then the dreadful silence that followed. They remember being carried roughly through the halls to a blood spattered man who brusquely decided their fate.

They do not have context for this memory. They remember their father wearing a shining gem, but no one spoke to them of messengers or coming war. Even after it was over, few spoke to them of it. They have fragmented whispers of those determined to justify their part in a second kinslaying. They have Curufin’s desperate rant to Celegorm about the importance of finding the jewel so they can help Feanor. They know of the Oath, and they know it hurts them and that it’s likely why none of Feanor’s sons can fully die, and they know their parents are dead, and they know all of these events are related, but no one has ever quite laid all the pieces out for them.

Elured wonders if all this silence is to protect their feelings and asks once, with unaccustomed hesitancy, “Was it Father’s fault? The battle?”

Maedhros’s head jerks up from his dinner. “No,” he says furiously, “who told you that?” 

“No one tells us anything about Doriath,” Elurin mutters and stabs at his meat.

The next day, Maglor offers to sing them part of the Lay of Luthien. This does not, actually, answer any of their questions.

And set against all of this is their memory of Maedhros teaching them to fight and making time to teach them everything else he can. He is grim and weary mostly, but occasionally they can coax him into a smile that answers the question of why his mother named him Maitimo.

They remember Maglor singing them to sleep whenever they were ill or sad or anxious, and they remember the silly songs he sang to them to cheer them up after scrapes, and the healing songs after more serious injuries.

They remember Celegorm leading them to the kennels and talking them through how to help care for the puppies.

They remember Caranthir, normally distant, sitting down to teach them math and accounts, and how he had made the once dry subject seem exciting.

They remember Curufin, harsh, demanding Curufin, inspecting their armor and weapons again and again until he at last pronounced himself satisfied.

They remember Amrod and Amras teaching them to hunt and wheedling Maedhros into letting them serve their rare punishments together instead of separated.

They are told - frequently at first, and then less often - that someday they will be returned to their family. They believe this, vaguely, in much the same way they believe in the paradise they have heard described in the West. They do not think the speakers are lying, but it is a far off sort of promise that does not seem to have much to do with anything important.

(They have learned not to express any part of this sentiment to anyone outside of themselves. The horrified looks on everyone’s faces are only funny for the first few seconds.)

And so when they make a habit of eavesdropping on the sons of Feanor’s councils, it is not because they do not trust them, but because they know that there are blank spaces in their knowledge, and there is always hope that something will be filled in.

This time, something is.

They listen to talk about the ransom discussions, suddenly very real and very important, and about how those discussions have failed. They listen as someone, it doesn’t matter who, states the obvious.

If Sirion will not surrender the Silmaril, they will have to try and take it.

Maedhros shoots the suggestion down.

Elured and Elurin back away from the place where the wall is thin and they can hear through it and look at each other.

They are not stupid. They can piece things together well enough.

Maedhros may shoot the suggestion down today, but sooner or later, the Oath will demand more, just as it demanded confirmation of where the Silmaril was.

The Sons of Feanor will attack their sister. Their sister, who does not believe they are alive. Their sister, whose advisors are telling her that even if they are still alive, they will have gone over to the Feanorians. 

The Feanorians who, however reluctantly, tried to trade them for a gem to a sister who would not take the bargain.

In a safer world, this is the point where they would go off for a long ride to clear their heads. Here, they need a destination.

“Our continued existence, at least, is easy enough to prove,” Elured points out quietly.

“And we can at least warn her that they are entirely serious in their threats,” Elurin agrees.

They are not at all sure whose side their on at this point, if anybody’s, but surely everyone will be better served by having all the facts.

As it happens, they’re probably right, but they won’t get the chance to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

This is what you must understand about Sirion:

Elwing is a young queen. She has strength and skill, but she has not grown into the fullness of them yet. She is so very young, especially by elven standards, so she leans on her councillors and everyone thinks it is probably for the best.

This is what you must understand about the councilors:

They are not, mostly, bad men. That does not mean they always do what is right.

There is one that was in the thick of fighting for Doriath. He barely escaped with his life. His memories of the ruthlessness of those he faced assure him that there is no chance the boy princes are still alive. Anyone who comes forwards claiming to be them is a liar and imposter, up to no good. (And if he cannot bear the idea that they might still be alive because that would mean he has failed them all this time by not saving them, then that is no one’s business but his own.)

There is one who fought in the Nirnaeth. The night before the battle, he heard Maglor sing, and he heard Maedhros speak, and he is quite sure that no one could live with those two for two decades and not walk away wholly entranced. If the princes are still alive, they are all but bespelled and cannot be trusted. (And if he felt carried away by those shining words long ago, then that is just further proof that he is right.)

There is one from Gondolin who is still quite wary of all outsiders. (And if he is loyal to Lord Earendil above all else and has no wish to see him displaced by some unknown king, what of it?)

And if there is one or more who like the balance of power the way that it is and would not see it disturbed, there are others who have seen far too many tricks of the Enemy and who will not trust this one.

So when Elured and Elurin turn up even after they have refused to pay the ransom for them, perhaps they are right to be suspicious.

 

They are not sure they can trust Elwing to be. These may be (are) her brothers after all, and they are not at all sure what she will do if she sees them.

They miss their opportunity to turn them away at the gates, but one of the councillors manages to catch them before they can get an audience with Elwing. He invites them in to eat. To talk. To get their bearings.

He weighs them up, and he does not like what he sees.

Red cloaks as if they are Feanorians. (Cloth is not easy to get. The cloaks were remade for them from some of Celegorm and Curufin’s old clothes. The brothers do not need them anymore, after all.)

Determined confidence that is not easy to steer onto a more palatable path. (Elured and Elurin value council, but this councillor and those of his fellows he has invited over are not like what they are used to. Those who rose to power in cautious, careful Gondolin and Doriath are not like those who follow the star of Feanor.)

And quiet songs of power ripple under their every word, waiting to strike. (They are grandsons of Luthien, conceived and born under the light of a Silmaril, raised under the tutelage of one of the greatest bards to ever live on the very edge of what is defensible territory. They are powerful, and they have not been taught to hide it. If it comes to a fight of song or power, they will win.)

They are dangerous, and they are counseling that the Silmaril be given up. They are not trustworthy, and they cannot be controlled.They cannot throw them out of the city without a fuss, and they cannot afford a fuss. They cannot kill them without becoming kinslayers, and they do not want to think of themselves as kinslayers. 

They do the only thing they can think of and drug the meal.

The twins are used to danger, but this is not what they are trained to watch for. They are wary of dead plants at the edges of poisoned pools, of crushed twigs that mean orcs have passed, of dark looks that mean someone would like to take a sparring session too far while dropping confusing hints about Doriath. This? This, they were never trained for.

Elured is less hungry and thus eats less and succumbs slower. He sees his brother fall, and he leaps to his feet, a song ready.

Three of the councillors fall asleep before Elured, too, succumbs.

They lock them up. They don’t see what other choice they have. They leave more drugged food and water while the twins are sleeping. This forms the pattern.

They do not feel good about this, most of them. They just do not know what else to do.

Elured and Elurin resist the water for as long as they can. They plot. They try to break out.

They are weary and heartsick and still feeling the lingering effects of the drugs. They fail.

They talk, during the attempts. They wonder if their sister knows. They wonder why this has happened. They wonder if the Feanorians know where they are, and if they will come to get them when they figure it out.

By the third round of drugs, Elurin is unabashedly hoping they do, and that they burn down the city while their at it. Elured is less certain, but he is sick and thirsty, and he wants badly to go home. He is not quite sure what home is - a fuzzy memory of a warm nursery and his mother’s soft embrace, or a warm hall with fierce laughter ringing around a dinner table half filled with those who need no food - and it doesn’t matter. Both are impossibly far away.

As it happens, the sons of Feanor do know where they are. They have spies in the city, and they know that the twins safely arrived.

The spies have no more to report than this.

This … concerns them.

The idea of attacking Sirion and facing the boys they raised is abhorrent. The thought of leaving their father to suffer for yet longer is equally so.

And they are increasingly concerned that the twins might be in trouble.

The Oath - the Oath that they’ve been fighting and denying for twenty years by not seeking its object more diligently - objects. It hits the dead the hardest, causing agony to their unshielded forms.

Maedhros gives in. They will attack the city, though it barely rates the name. At this point, what does it matter? Kinslayers twice over or thrice over, they are condemned all the same.

He gives orders that Elured and Elurin are to be allowed to escape or taken alive. He will not see them dead.

They attack.

A few of their people desert, but not many. The torment of their dead lords increases their loyalty to a fanaticism, and many of those with softer hearts are worried for the twins and have managed to convince themselves that this is in their interests. 

None of this changes the fact that most of the brothers look at what they have wrought and hate themselves a little more.

The dead cannot fight, but they can scout. Celegorm and Curufin hunt for the Silmaril through the city. They lead Maglor and Maedhros to Elwing, who throws herself out of a slightly lower window than she otherwise might have reached. This changes nothing.

Caranthir does not make it that far. He is cut down in the streets. Het gets up and keeps going.

Amrod and Amras fight together, the dead looking out for the living. They are looking for the other set of twins.

But somewhere in the chaos, a fire has been set or spread out of control. They find the twins in Sirion’s little used prison, the guards bribed to keep their silence until Amras sends the guards to a silence far beyond bribes.

But the smoke finds them first.

Elured and Elurin are awake but weak, pressed desperately to the floor to avoid the smoke, trying to sing through parched throats to ward the approaching fire away. Amrod tries to encourage them while Amras desperately tries to pick the lock, ignoring the way the hot metal stings his skin.

The door finally creaks open. The building is on the verge of collapsing around them. They are running out of time to escape, but Elurin is starting to succumb to the smoke. He cannot get out on his own.

Elured is weakening too, but he tells Amras he’s fine, to take Elurin.

He is not fine. Amrod, the only one not bothered by smoke inhalation, knows this, but there aren’t any better options. They have to try.

Amras gets Elurin out. He turns around, and neither his twin nor Elurin’s is behind him.

He goes back in. 

Elured has collapsed. Amras is desperately trying to wake him up. Amrod grabs him and tries to drag him out.

That’s when a burning beam in the ceiling falls and traps them both, catching their clothes alight.

Amrod should flee for help, but for a moment he’s stunned into stillness and then he tries to help himself before remembering he can’t and going.

Amras’s scream tells him he’s probably already too late.

He is. For both of them. His men come back to a collapsed building. Elurin is just outside the zone of destruction, still hanging onto life by a thread. Amrod can hear his brother’s mourning wail inside a place no living man could be.

He goes to join him.

Maglor finds Elrond and Elros before he knows about his brothers or about Elured. He almost wants to laugh, in a hysterical sort of way, but the city is on fire, and the symmetry is there, and what else are they supposed to do?

Besides, they’re both crying, even if they’re trying to hide it, and they need help, and Maglor is there, and this, at least, is right, so he helps. To prove something, maybe, or even just because of that. Because it’s right. Because they’re children who have never hurt anyone. Because they’re family, in more than one sense, and as he tells Maedhros what else are we supposed to do?

Maedhros also doesn’t know yet, and while he’s a little afraid Maglor is trying to replace their missing twins, he’s also accustomed to the idea of taking children as dubiously useful hostages by now, so he doesn’t protest.

Then they find out.

There is still no question of leaving the new twins behind because there is still nothing else to be done, but Maglor is the only one who can bear to have much to do with them. He sets them in the cart with Elurin in the hopes that the three of them can keep each other from fading and summons up all the power his scratched throat can manage to sing them into a tighter hold hold on life.


	4. Chapter 4

Amras feels stretched, and though he won’t admit to it, in pain. The Music of the world rages against him, at the wrongness that warps around him. It comes on suddenly. Curufin theorizes that having a living twin delayed the effect and that now that Amrod is dead, this protection is gone.

“Doesn’t that mean it’ll hit us sooner?” Celegorm asks.

The dead all look at each other and don’t answer.

“Do you think we’ll start to lose ourselves like the houseless spirits?” Amras asks quietly.

“Probably,” Caranthir says.

Curufin smiles grimly. “At least we’ll have the Oath.”

They manage to hide it from the living for a short while because the retreat back to Amon Ereb keeps Maedhros busy and because desperately trying to keep three Peredhel from fading keeps Maglor busy. But since they’re all taking shifts at Elurin’s bedside, it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out.

Maglor starts trying to bind them all tighter to the earth, to their living brothers, to anything but the Oath in a desperate attempt to help them.

It helps, but Amras is loathe to admit it because it is patently obvious to everyone that between trying to keep his dead brothers sane, his troops’ morale up, and the Peredhel living, Maglor is wearing himself far too thin. 

Yet none of this can be given up, so Maedhros, just as powerful if less talented with music, steps in to help as best he can.

It still isn’t quite enough.

 

The first time Elurin wakes up from the haze, he hears Maglor singing, wonders briefly where his brother is, and goes back to sleep.

The second time he wakes up, he reaches for his brother’s spirit and meets nothing, and he knows.

There are no word for the ache that hits. He wants nothing more than to fade back into the nothingness, but his mind has hit two other almost familiar spirits in his vain quest for his brother’s, and he looks down to see two small elflings curled up asleep beside him.

They look a bit like him.

He looks up then and sees Maglor asleep in a chair beside him, and Maedhros quietly wrapping a blanket around his brother.

“Who set the fire?” he asks.

Maedhros flinches but turns to look him in the eyes. “I don’t know.”

Elurin believes him. He remembers wishing for the Feanorians to come and do exactly that and feels a bit sick. “Amrod?” 

“Dead,” Maedhros says flatly. “And Caranthir. They’re still with us.”

Of course. They were still here while Elured was gone.

Elurin is angry in a distant sort of way. He suspects that when the haze clears, it will be all consuming, so he tries to sort out now just who he’s angry with, himself for failing, the lords of Sirion for locking them up, or the Feanorians for starting a fight that provoked the fire.

It is impossible not to blame himself, but it’s not enough.

He doesn’t know who’s right about things. How much of everyone’s actions are justified and how much is not. He’s too tired and hurt to figure it out.

But he knows who came for him in the fire and who didn’t, so he decides to be angry at Sirion. 

He remembers his father’s scream and his mother’s still body, and he knows it might be the wrong choice, but his mind is still reaching into a void, and his parents aren’t here to fill it while Maglor and Maedhros’s minds shine like beacons inviting him in.

It is far easier just to blame Sirion.

“Elwing?” he asks after a moment. It occurs to him belatedly that if they have killed his sister, he should probably change his mind about who to blame, but it is hard to feel much for someone he barely remembers and who gave him up for dead.

Maedhros’s expression tightens. “She jumped out of a tower window with the Silmaril.” He pauses. “Ulmo turned her into a bird.”

Elurin also believes this, mostly because while the Feanorians have hidden things from him before, they haven’t outright lied, and while they might choose to start now, he has faith that Maedhros could make up a more plausible lie than this.

“Maglor found her sons,” Maedhros continues when Elurin doesn’t respond. “Elrond and Elros.”

Elurin pulls them closer automatically. “Alright,” he says wearily. “Alright.”

It does not appear to be what Maedhros expects, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

 

When he wakes again, the twins are awake and frightened.

He remembers those first days. He’s glad they have each other like he had - 

Well. It’s good.

And he’ll be there for them too, and Maglor, and the others once he’s roped them into it.

“Are you really our uncle?” one blurts out.

That’s easy enough. “Yes.”

“Are they going to kill us?”

Also easy. “No. You’re safe now, I promise. We’re going to make sure of it.”

 

They do. It’s harder than it once was. Beleriand grows more dangerous by the year, and the dead are falling more quickly to the strain as the darkness grows. Elurin, seeing the struggle without being told, starts trying to help, but it’s harder with Elured gone. Elrond and Elros try to help too, and Elrond in particular has a gift for the healing songs.

It’s not enough, but it’s all they can do.

 

Elurin is not sure how much Elwing knew about them being locked up. After this many nights of his nephews having nightmares and asking him when she was coming back, he is not inclined to be generous.

It is so easy to be angry these days, and Elwing is a safe target. His nephews pick up on it, which might be unfortunate, but Elros is quick to adopt Elurin’s views on most things these days, and Elrond, although more willing to try to puzzle out her side of things, isn’t willing to pick a fight over it.

Maglor’s mouth purses unhappily when he realizes it. “She was brave,” he tells them that night as he helps the twins prepare for bed.

“She left us,” Elros says flatly. 

“She didn’t want to.”

“Then why didn’t she give up that stupid stone?”

Maglor looks to Elurin for help. Elurin shrugs unhelpfully.

Maglor corners him about it later, and Elurin is less restrained then. “She had a chance to avert all this,” he says furiously. “If she had ransomed us like you offered, none of this would have happened.”

The pain in Maglor’s eyes grows. “She is not the first person to refuse to ransom a sibling from an untrustworthy enemy,” he reminds Elurin. 

“You are not Morgoth,” he retorts, but he doesn’t bring it up again. 

 

When Earendil’s star appears in the sky, not even Maglor can find much room for joy.

“How will we reach it now?” Amrod asks desperately. 

Amras says nothing. It’s one of his bad days, and what’s visible of him writhes in silent agony.

Curufin stares up at it like if he tries hard enough, the light will turn into their father, falling from the skies to tell them what to do. Celegorm’s fists are clenched uselessly at his side.

Caranthir’s eyes flick once to the children, but he says nothing. Even if Earendil were willing to ransom them, they have no way to send a message.

If they were alone, Maedhros would look defeated. As it is, he merely says, “The Oath must be fulfilled,” and turns away.

Maglor wants to suggest giving it up, but there are five reasons that’s impossible right beside him, and he can’t bear the thought of their father trapped in there any more than the others can.

“That’s our father?” Elrond asks in a small voice. 

Maglor turns to him, glad of the distraction. “It appears so. Perhaps he can see you from up there.”

Elros perks up immediately, and Maglor is glad of it. “Do you think maybe he can hear us too?”

Maglor thinks it doubtful, but they are still so young. He manages to smile. “I think it can’t hurt for you to try to speak to him if you wish it.” It is ridiculous and wrong for this suggestion to hurt. The children are not his, were never his, and he has no right at all to feel as he does.

Elros cups his hands over his mouth and shouts, “If you love us at all, get down here with that stupid shiny rock so Uncle Amras will stop hurting so much!”

Maglor blinks. 

Elurin looks around at the suddenly very quiet woods. “Perhaps a little less volume next time,” he suggests.

 

Later, Maglor will try again. “I know we didn’t do a good job telling you of Doriath.”

“I don’t care about Doriath.”

This is at least partially a lie and Maglor knows it. “I would like to avoid making the same mistake with Elrond and Elros. It can do them no good to hear nothing but ill of their parents.”

Elurin stops sharpening his sword for a moment. “You’re probably right,” he agrees. “Alright. If you want to tell them pretty bedtime stories about why their mother’s a bird and their father’s a star, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Maglor dearly hopes that Elwing is not still a bird and Earendil is only carrying the star, but the Valar are strange, and he is suddenly a bit worried that they might not realize why elves could find those forms objectionable. He pushes that disconcerting thought away in favor of another one.

“This argument feels somewhat backwards.” Surely it should not be the wicked kinslayer who argues for singing of his victims’ merits.

“Your dead brothers tend to have more life in them than your living one,” Elurin points out. “Elrond and Elros call the lot of us ‘uncle’ and their parents by their given names. Backwards is how this family runs.”

Maglor is not quite sure that five ghosts, two kinslayers, and three people that are technically hostages make up a unit quite so straightforward and wholesome as a family, but it gives him hope to hear it all the same.


	5. Chapter 5

When the host from Aman arrives, Maedhros suggests that perhaps Elrond and Elros would be better off with Gil-Galad.

“Because things went so well the last time we tried something like that,” Elurin says flatly.

That’s pretty much the end of it.

The war rages on, but for once, they’re winning.

It’s hard to remember that sometimes as the ghosts struggle ever more visibly with the pain, but every step closer to Angband is a step closer to their Oath fulfilled, and that seems to help.

When that’s not enough, the living do their best to sing them back to wholeness and it is almost, almost enough.

 

When the war is won and the Silmarils reclaimed, they send a letter asking for all of them, including Earendil’s, to be returned. Among their reasons, they cite the unquiet dead.

Eonwe tells them they have no right to the Silmarils and that they must surrender to the Valar.

“Maybe,” Maglor says desperately, “maybe if we do, Mandos can help them. Maybe we’ll at least be better off in Aman.”

“And Father?” Curufin spits.

“We don’t know he’s in there,” Caranthir says wearily, voice tight with pain. “Although I’d feel better for checking.”

“We can’t go on like this,” Amrod says.

Amras says nothing. He has no good days anymore.

“We’ve come too far to surrender now,” Celegorm says. “Bargaining has never worked for us before. Why should now be different?”

“The Silmarils are still our best chance of ending this,” Maedhros tells Maglor, and if he is holding the arm that ends in a stump protectively closer to his body as he does whenever his thoughts stray to his time being the prisoner of a Vala, no one mentions it.

Maglor bows his head and yields.

 

They need the Silmarils, but they still have people to protect, including the children, a term that includes Elrond, Elros, and Elurin, despite what Elurin thinks of that. They have to be careful.

They do not kill the guards. Amrod stays back with the people to watch Amras and help his brother as best he can. Curufin, Caranthir, and Celegorm, insubstantial as they are, are able to go through the back of the tent and then burst through the front. The guards see them speed by, assume a theft has occurred, and chase after them. 

Maglor and Maedhros slip in behind them and take the chest.

The ruse is discovered quickly enough. They get further before they are surrounded, but the results are the same. They are allowed to depart with two of the three treasures.

In their haste, they do not head in the right direction to return to their camp, but that can be corrected later. For now, they are too eager to wait. They open the chest and pick them up.

They can feel their father. Wounded, desperate, but unmistakably him, and even now, they feel his love for them.

They also feel an uncomfortable warmth in the jewels and more pain from their father. They set them down quickly, but their hands are only pink, not destroyed.

They look at each other.

“We need the third.”

Caranthir says it, and they all know he’s right. Now that they know their father is trapped in there, they have no choice.

It is simply a matter of figuring out how to get it.

Or, rather, a matter of figuring out a way that doesn’t turn all of their stomachs.

“About that,” an unexpected voice says, and then Elurin is cresting the hill and tossing them something bright and shining.

 

It had been easy enough for Elurin to convince Earendil to throw down a rope ladder and invite him up into the air for a small victory celebration of their own since Earendil could not descend. Earendil was desperate for news of his sons and curious to meet his wife’s brother.

Incidentally, it had also been easy enough to figure out where the Feanorians were going when they left camp and to figure out the hole in their plan.

Elurin ate and drank with Earendil, and if Elurin had also drunk something before climbing up that meant he was still wide awake as the food made Earendil more and more drowsy. Well. Earendil’s lords had drugged him first, and turnabout was fair play.

Elurin was pretty sure the Valar wouldn’t approve of him stealing their star while its pilot snored, but he had chosen his side, and this was the only way forward he could find.

 

Maglor catches it and stares at Elurin in disbelief. “What did you do?”

“No one’s dead,” Elurin says, and that’s all he has time to say because Maglor has set the gem down and another spirit is rising from the reunited gems.

Feanor looks terrible. The hallowing of the gems has burned him, and the burns are greater from where he has been desperately trying to shield his sons from the same affect. He is not entirely sane, not after what he’s been through, but he remembers his sons, and he remembers his Oath, and he knows now that it is fulfilled, and he can do now what he couldn’t for the strength of the Oath and the fear of condemning them all to eternal darkness.

The other ghosts are already fading. The call of Mandos can reach them at last, and they are in too much pain to resist long.

They remain long enough to see their father smile.

And then their father takes back the spirit he put into his creations and unmakes the Silmarils.

The light from the Trees blazes into the eyes of the three living souls, and they stumble backward. That light can be seen in all the camps, and soon someone will come to investigate.

But for right now, it’s just them.

Feanor is gone. With the Silmarils destroyed, he too is free.

Maedhros looks at the scorched spot where the Silmarils had been and then looks to where his brothers were. Fresh grief hits him all at once.

“It’s done,” he says dully. “We can rest now.” And he takes a step back towards a gash in the earth.

Maglor is caught up in his own moment of grief and doesn’t realize. Elurin does and dives forward, wrapping Maedhros in what is part comforting embrace and part restraint.

“We won,” he says fiercely. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare.”_

When Eonwe shows up, he finds the three of them sitting there learning on each other, all of their eyes still blazing with that light. Elrond and Elros, who had been with the Ambarussa when they vanished, reach them at about the same time and immediately take up probably useless defenseless positions.

Eonwe looks stunned. “What have you done?” he demands.

“You already know what they did,” Elurin reminds him. “The rest was me. And Feanor. But don’t worry, he’s Namo’s headache now.”

Eonwe does not look terribly reassured.

That’s alright. They may pay for it later, but for right now, all that remains of their strange little family is together and the rest is either at peace or making sure Namo isn’t getting any either, and Elurin can live with that.


End file.
